Nolan glanced over his shoulder as he crept into the kitchen.

Greg was in the shower. Caleb was playing a video game. It was the perfect time.

At the counter, he reached for the medium-sized, floral box labeled recipes in his mom's handwriting. Before everything happened, Greg and their mom used to use this box for recipes they either copied from the internet or created themselves. Now, it also housed Greg's on-hand funds.

Nolan stuffed the twenties inside and snapped the box shut.

Just in time. He'd barely set the box back next to the salt shaker when a voice made him jump, "Whatcha doing?"

He spun. Greg raked a towel through his hair, clad in a ratty T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. "I'm getting something to eat," he said, his nerves making the words snappier than intended.

"Okay." Greg's eyebrows rose. "You okay?"

"Fine." He made a bowl of Frosted Flakes and left. He wasn't even hungry, but he wasn't about to waste a good bowl of cereal.

"Are you being snippy?" Caleb asked as Nolan dropped onto the couch.

"Snippy?"

"Yeah, he is," Greg said. He'd appeared in the doorway again, this time towel-less. "Are we good?" he asked, eyebrows creased.

"Yeah," Nolan said.

Greg narrowed his eyes, but nodded. "Okay. I have homework to do."

"Your book is boring!" Caleb called over his shoulder. He stuck out his tongue, fingers tapping swiftly against the controller.

"Agreed, dude, agreed!"

✝

Ice cream place is out.

Nolan had barely hit Send when someone responded. It was so odd, being a part of a group chat again. And even back in Ann Arbor, he'd never been in a chat with more than two people, unless it was for a class project or something. Now, his phone buzzed constantly.

At first, he'd felt a bit like an invader—still did, to be honest. The name of their group chat was an inside joke he didn't understand—fine fam from alabam? What? But as the days ticked by, the notifications became just another part of daily life.

Andy was the one who'd responded. Damn!!! I really wanted ice cream

Willow's response was immediate. Swear jar.

SHERIGHEIRH

Swear jar.

WHAT

Don't think we don't know what you meant

Nolan snorted. I'll see if there's another ice cream place that'll let us film, he typed.

See, Sison??? That's called being pRODUCTIVE

Or pity, Max said.

Maxwell that was so uncalled for

Maxwell? Max asked.

I was trying something

I don't like it

Me neither

Another snort.

"Who are you talking to?" Caleb asked. He was next to him on the couch, a book in hand.

"No one," Nolan drawled. He cleared his throat and wiped a threatening smile from his face.

I'm sorry the public outings are giving you so much trouble, Erin said.

It's not any trouble, he typed.

Ann Arbor isn't ready for us next week!!!!

PARKOUR

PARKOUR!!!

Candy Cane please be careful, Nora said.

Why just me.....What are you saying......

That you're clumsy, Max said.

HEY!!

Nolan chuckled.

"Tell whoever you're talking to that I say hi," Caleb said.

NOLAN, Nora said. Are we set for tomorrow?

It had been a couple weeks since their last meeting. Schedules had proved difficult to match up, so they decided it would be best to get started with filming while they searched for the public locations. Tomorrow would be his first day filming.

Yeah, he said. Pick you up at Second at noon, right?

Right!

What would it be like, holding his camera again? Adjusting the lens? Choosing shots? He should have been dreading it—being forced to participate, to talk, to socialize. But he wasn't.

"Did you tell them I said hi?" Caleb asked.

"No."

"Tell them!"

He sighed and typed, Caleb says hi

HI, BUDDY!

HEY!!!!!

Whaddup

Hey, Caleb!

Tell him I say hi, too!

"They all say hi," Nolan said.

"Lemme see!"

Nolan rolled his eyes, but thought it easier to appease Caleb than have him whining in his ear for the next half-hour. He handed his phone to Caleb. Caleb took it and gasped. "You're in a group chat?" he asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You hate being in groups! They have too many people!"

Caleb started to type, and Nolan snatched the phone away. "What are you doing?" he demanded. HIIIIII GUYYYSSSSSSS was waiting to be sent.

Caleb giggled. "Send it, send it, send it!"

"No." Nolan erased the message. I told him, he wrote instead.

The conversation bounced between different topics for a while. In-between e-mails to different ice cream places and research on different locations, Nolan would give the occasional reply. Don't get attached.

His phone dinged, and he checked the notification. He snorted.

✝

"So, what's this project for?"

Nolan looked away from the window, at Greg. He shrugged. "Fun, I guess," he said.

Greg smiled. "It's nice."

"What's nice?"

"To hear you say fun."

Nolan rolled his eyes and looked back out the window. They were parked on the side of the street, just outside of Second. Before the other day, he had no idea the little shop existed. He wondered what it was like, working in a clothes store. Boring, probably. Though, Nora didn't strike him as someone who got bored easily.

"Are you sure we're okay?"

"Yes," he said, not removing his gaze from the window. "How many times are you going to ask me that?"

"Until you're believable."

Nolan sighed, but didn't reply. There wasn't a point. Greg wouldn't believe him, anyway.

They were fine. Hiding the job was just proving more stressful than he'd originally thought. The lying and coming up with excuses were bad enough—but Greg's happiness over Nolan "branching out" was hard to take.

"Op, here she comes."

Nolan looked up as Nora emerged from Second, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She waved and jogged over to their Chevrolet Impala. "Hi!" she said, hopping into the backseat and buckling her seat. "Thank you so much for picking me up."

"No problem!" Greg said. "How was work?"

"Invigorating. Any of you need your clothes folded? I'm a pro."

Greg chuckled and, once traffic cleared, pulled out onto the street. The ride to Nora's passed by pretty quickly. Nora and Greg talked about this and that, and Nolan added a word or two here and there whenever necessary. For the most part, he was free to look out the window in peace.

"You'll be home by three-thirty, right?" Greg asked once they'd pulled into Nora's driveway. "That's what I told Sam's mom."

"Yup," he said.

"Okay." Greg smiled at Nora through the rearview mirror. "Have fun."

"Oh, we will."

Nora hopped out of the car, and Nolan did the same, hoisting his camera bag over his shoulder. He stared up at the two-story farmhouse. The yellow paint had long faded, nearly white now.

Nora quieted as they made their way across the cement path, to the front porch.

"Did Willow send you the filming schedule?" Nolan asked.

"Yup!" She smiled. "All ordered and ready to go. If I remember correctly, we're filming in my room first, right?"

He nodded. There were two main places where Nora would sing: her room and the bathroom. There would also be some shots of her in the hallways, walking or strumming her guitar. Maybe a few in the living room, just for good measure.

They wouldn't get it all today—not with the amount of rooms and angles—but they should be able to get a good chunk of it done.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Nora said once they were inside. She swept her arm across the foyer. A simple, clean space with dark hardwood floors. Maybe they should get some shots on the stairs...

"Okay, I don't want to set your expectations ridiculously high or anything," Nora said as they traveled upstairs, "but I definitely should be an actress. Honestly."

His lips twitched. "I'll try not to get my hopes up."

She looked over her shoulder and grinned.

While she grabbed a pair of more casual clothes—a simple Tee versus a floral crop-top and Converses instead of a black heel—he took a look around, analyzing the way the shadows fell across her furniture. The bed was on the wall adjacent to the window—perfect. He set his camera bag on the bed and unzipped it.

His camera felt so natural in his hands. Last night, when he took it out to charge, it had felt heavy, weighed down with history. Today, though, it was lighter.

"Okay," Nora said. He turned as she sauntered into the room, her eyes on her phone. "So, I just sing through the song while you record?" she asked.

"Yup."

"Sounds good." She smiled, and stuffed her phone in her pocket. "Where do you want me first?"

She grabbed her guitar and he turned on his camera, and, just like that, it was time to begin. Of course, there was some finagling with the lighting, situating her so they could get the best contrast possible. But, it felt like no time at all before she started to sing.

It was terrifying, how easily he slipped back into the role of The Guy with the Camera. But as he shifted around Nora as she sang, he nearly smiled. He was more at home here, behind the lens, than he had been since he set that first cardboard box in his Greeley bedroom.

"Down darkened streets, down darkened—" She halted. "Whoops."

"It's all right," he said. "Just keep going."

"I totally know my own song." She laughed softly to herself and shook her head. "Okay. I got this." She made a dramatic, preparing sigh, and his lips twitched. "Down darkened streets, down broken roads—"

"Nora." His lips twitched again. "You're supposed to be sad."

Her grin broadened, despite her visible struggle. She sputtered out a laugh. She tried to calm herself and start again, but that only seemed to make her laugh harder. It was infectious, her laughter—a chuckle of his own escaped.

"Okay, okay, I swear, I'm ready," she said. She patted her knees, but the moment she opened her mouth to sing, she sagged, laughter on her lips. "Crap."

He caught himself from laughing again. Dammit. What was wrong with him?

"Okay." She dragged a hand down her face, a calming motion. She strummed her guitar again. "Down darkened streets, down broken..." She faltered, a smile hovering at the edges of her lips, but she quickly shoved it down. "...down broken..."

She sputtered out another laugh.

Three hours later, Nolan zipped up his camera bag. Even with the breaks for water, the mess-ups, and Nora's gregariousness, they'd gotten about three-fourths of what they needed. Not bad.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" he asked.

She swept a hand across her room. "For this."

"Oh, it's no problem," he said. "Thanks for the job offer."

She smiled. "Of course. It was a lot of fun today."

He nodded, a hand reaching for the back of his neck. It had been. He hated that he couldn't deny it, but he couldn't. He'd smiled and laughed—or at least had been tempted to laugh—more than he had in a long time.

"Did you have fun?" she asked.

"Yeah," he murmured. He looked away, at her guitar. She'd hung it back on the wall.

"It was my mom's," she said.

"Cool." He paused. "Was?"

"Yeah," she said. "She died when I was little."

His eyes widened. "Oh," he said softly. He scratched the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." A long time ago. Her tone was dismissive, but the way her gaze dipped and she seemed to curl in on herself...

She understands. He blinked the thought away—or, at least, he thought he did, because the next thing he knew, he was murmuring, "My...my mom died, too." His eyes found her Philippians 4:13 poster, and his jaw locked. "My dad, too."

Her mouth slackened. "I'm so sorry," she breathed.

He'd heard the phrase—or variations of the phrase—so many times he'd lost count. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Empty. Just words to fill a space that was doomed to stay empty. But when she said it, there was weight.

He nodded and shrugged. "I should get going."

"Yeah," she said, checking her phone. "You don't want to be late."

He hoisted his bag over his shoulder. "I'll see you later," he said.

What if you don't?

"I'll walk you down—"

"It's okay." He forced on a small smile. "Bye."

He left.